Here in my old age, I read. I read about old stories, even stories involving me. As I read I sigh a dee breath. This is my story. The story of Bernid Slendackel. Candles light the room, as I sit at the table book open with me reading the ages and thinking of the hounorbond oath.
It was the second winter of the fifth age. The fields of Thyreel were trapped in the grip of an ever deeping freeze. I had just returned to the dales of Mistheaven, when something caught my attention. From the depths of the white horizon, a stranger approached. Unlike most in this time. He was not looking for somewhere to stay or for food, but for someone who could help him. Someone like me.